“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder.
“You always come dreadfully late.”
“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe.”
“You can dine with me tonight, Dorian, can’t you?”
He shook his head. “Tonight she is Imogen,” he answered, “and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.”
“When is she Sibyl Vane?”
“Never.”
“I congratulate you.”
“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me!
I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!”
He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.